


and baby, the girdle of Venus got me

by malfaisant



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But this world only gave you twenty minutes, so you're going to take the rest by force. You're only taking what's rightfully yours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and baby, the girdle of Venus got me

**Author's Note:**

> set in Ultimates-verse, sometime in Ultimates 1, I think. tony's blond evil twin brother is [totally canon](http://marvel.wikia.com/Gregory_Stark_\(Earth-1610\)) btw.

There might have been a time when you didn't resent him for existing. Where people noticed you instead of him. Where father looked at you, and only you.

But this world only gave you twenty minutes, so you're going to take the rest by force. You're only taking what's rightfully yours.

He sitting in your lap, straddling your thighs. You lean back on the couch, loosening your tie with one hand. "You're gonna stain this suit, too?"

He smiles at you, cruel and sharp, and it's like looking at a mirror where everything is wrong. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark maroon shirt and black suit.

"Your wardrobe needs all the color it can get, you tacky bastard. Hasn't anyone told you about wearing white after labor day, dearest older brother?"

Twenty minutes. You're older by twenty minutes, and that's all you ever had. The rest is up for grabs and you both know the rules. You both build the future, implants in your brain, nanites in your blood, and you've been winning this race from the start, you're not about to let him win _now_.

You've divided the world between the two of you, and you're just waiting for him to slip.

"How pedestrian of you, idiot little brother," you hiss through your teeth. Then, "Don't vomit on my suit."

"Not the kind of stains I was thinking about, to be honest."

He shucks off the blazer and you plant your hands on his waist, feeling the sharp jut of his hipbone.

"I can manage that though, if you want."

There might have been a time when you loved him, and there might have been a time when he looked up to you. You might have been inseparable, once. Fortunately, if these were ever true, there's none of that between you now. Certainly not love.

(are you sure about that?)

You card your fingers through his dark hair. He doesn't break the stare as he unbuttons your shirt. Fingertips ghost over your collarbone.

Black hair frames a sickly pale face, and he smells like death, his breath reeking of alcohol and chemotherapy meds, complete with olive garnish. There are red marks like rope burn around his wrists, probably from the BDSM club he went to last night (probably? as if you have to guess. you have ten guys keeping you updated for whenever he so much as sneezes. ha, _probably_ ).

"Worthless, vulgar drunkard."

"Worried I can't get it up, Gregory? I guess _you_ are at that age, after all."

"Don't worry, I'll just imagine you're me with a bad dye job."

He snickers, and palms your half-hard cock through the fabric of your trousers in lieu of an actual reply. He kisses you.

Tony is all charm and depravity and kindness, mother's gentle heart.

You wonder what father ever saw in him. Stark men are iron and steel, and your precious little brother has always been too soft-hearted.

Your run your hands down his side, and Tony's laughter is smothered against your mouth. He's always been ticklish, he's too thin, he doesn't eat enough, he drinks too much, he's going to kill himself even faster with this superhero thing, isn't Jarvis supposed to be looking after him—

You wrap a hand around one of his reddened wrists and holds it against his chest. The other you wrap around the back of his neck.

"Dearest darling brother...," he murmurs under his breath, his goatee rough against the column of your throat.

You piston your hips forward, rutting against him, and he pants, and moves against you, and it's always been about symmetry, light versus dark. He takes you both in hand, thumb brushing under the head, and you're digging your blunt nails into the small of his back.

"Greg," he groans your name against your lips.

You kiss and bite and grind and this has always been how it's been. You've both done this before, and neither of you ever forget for a second who the other is. (as if either of you will ever let the other forget.)

Tony deepens the kiss, closing his eyes, his tongue down your throat, and even this is a competition. His other hand runs through your blond hair, and he grabs a fistful and tugs painfully, pulling your head back. You tighten the hand on his neck, feeling his pulse under your thumb, the same blood pumping in his veins as yours, and you cover his hand in yours, stroking in time, and he moans like a whore as he comes.

You are older and smarter and better in all the ways that matter. He has never been anything but your pathetic little brother, your lesser shadow, and you always feel as if you're going mad because no one seems to realise that but you. No one can see that Tony was never meant for this world—it's why it keeps trying to kill him, inch by painful inch. You think the world is taking too long.

You say his name through gritted teeth like a curse as shivers wrack your own spine.

He leans on you, utterly spent, breathless. You can feel him smiling against the crook of your shoulder.

You have twenty minutes on him, and that's all you'll ever need.


End file.
